


The Ceremony

by PessoasLily



Series: The Winchesters Live [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Consort Dean Winchester, Crowley is a Little Shit, Crowley is an ass kisser, Dean Winchester in a Dress, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Talk of enemas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-19 16:58:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10644162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PessoasLily/pseuds/PessoasLily
Summary: Dean's in hell with Sam. Crowley is trying to get Dean dressed for the ceremony. Sam is trying to not lose his mind.





	1. Best Dressed Winchester

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of Nothing Wants to Die. It would help if you read that first. The tone of this sequel is much lighter.

Things were going well, all things considered. That is, if your spectrum goes from your brother attempting to murder you for even suggesting you have gay sex on an altar _to_ your brother's eager excitement to be your hell bride. That spectrum.

Dean was in Sam's bedchamber throwing everything he could get his hands on and stabbing everyone who came into the room. This was only slightly worse than Sam anticipated. At least he stopped trying to exorcise the tailor. Every time he’d send poor Crowley off, the demon had to trudge his way back from some random place in hell. Sam could see how that would get kind of tedious.

“Dean, sweetheart, put down the sacrificial goat’s skull chalice,” Sam pleaded through the closed door.

Crash. Sam winced. That really was a lovely chalice. It held the perfect amount of whiskey and blood when Sam wanted a nice after dinner cocktail. Ah, well. There were always humans willing to sacrifice a goat.

“Stop calling me sweetheart, Sammy,” Dean yelled. “I’m not a frickin’ child. I’m especially not a frickin’ GIRL child.”

Ah. That again.

Maybe it’s best to back up a bit. Perhaps understanding how things devolved so quickly would help Sam think of a solution.

To summarize: Jake killed Sam. Sam went to hell. Sam purged all levels of hell, freeing up the souls so he could consume their power, and scraping the antiquated designations of degrees of sin. If you're in hell, you're going to suffer. No more white-collar 5 star suites for souls willing to torture. Wanting to balance the darkness he'd taken in, he ate of the souls of a thousand virgins. They had a spicey, sugary taste, like cinnamon toast. Then, running on pure rage, he vanquished the Morningstar. Voila! Boy King.

And all of it to have the power to return to Dean and keep him from the angels.

So maybe Sam hadn’t told Dean the exact truth. He didn’t outright lie but he omitted certain things he was sure Dean would find distasteful. Like the virgin soul thing. The exact nature of the consort’s ceremonial garment.

And the fact that Dean was meant to sell his soul and go to hell in Sam’s stead. Stuff like that. Unnecessary details that would cause the now borderline hysterical man distress.

How Sam’s descent into hell actually went started out with the reaper who came to collect him. Tessa. Sam had been hovering over Dean, watching Dean trace his lips, place his hand over his heart, and Sam ached with an unfamiliar longing he was sure he denied when he was alive. Seeing his tough, “no chick flick moments” brother so utterly broken broke something in Sam. Or maybe it was always broken. It didn’t matter. He knew he couldn’t leave.

Tessa insisted it was time to go - where, she refused to say. She assured Sam that Dean would be alright. Given time, he’d return to hunting, find and kill the demon that had killed their mother, and eventually settle down with a family. He just needed this period of mourning and it would do him no good if Sam lingered. Sam didn’t even bother to call bullshit. Tessa couldn’t tell him where he’d end up; he was certain she lacked the omniscience to see Dean’s future.

It was then Azazel appeared; not to Sam but to Dean. He offered to bring Sam back for the “low low price” of Dean’s immortal soul. Dean was seconds away from accepting the deal when Sam found himself consumed by a burning rage. He would not let Dean give up his life for him. Power pulsed through him, electric and hot. He was unaware his eyes turned black as he held out his hand and took Tessa by the throat. She paled and tried to pull away. Sam banished her with a flick of his wrist. 

Sam then reached out for Azazel, Azazel’s black smoke twisting and writhing beneath the skin of his meat suit. He tried to smoke out but Sam held him in place. Sam then reached inside the demon and pulled, at first only by a thin thread of power, and then with the full force of Sam’s fury. Sam drank. Sam consumed. As easily as taking a cool drink of water.

Dean watched the demon he’d been bargaining with scream, clutch his throat and then fall lifeless to the ground. There wasn’t the usual exhalation of smoke, and Dean looked around before bending and checking the pulse of the body. Dead.

Sam, now no longer dead but something not quite yet alive, appeared to Dean as an apparition. He told him he was loved. Told him he would be safe now. Then, regrettably, wiped the whole encounter with Azazel and Sam from his mind, leaving Dean to return to his grief.

The last thing Sam did before he followed the dark pull of hell was whisper into Bobby’s ear that it was time for him to call in help.

If Sam had known then how Dean would react, he might have left a suggestion that consorts look pretty hot in ceremonial gowns.

Garments, Sam corrected himself. Ceremonial garments.

“I’m not wearing a goddamn dress, Sammy. If you’re so intent on sexing me up in front of your demon suckups, you wear the fucking dress.” Dean shouted through the door, the sound of breaking glass causing Sam to wince. He liked that vase.

“Dean. Darling. It’s not like you’ll be wearing it for long.” Sam soothed.

Another crash, perhaps some ripping. Maybe Sam should have taken Dean’s knives away. At least he wasn’t shooting anything.

A loud report of gunfire followed by the door swinging open and a frantic Crowley running out made Sam wonder if it was perhaps Dean who could read minds.

“Dean. Dearest. Put down the gun. And the fertility idol.”

Dean eyed the ugly statue suspiciously and turned a death glare on Sam. “Why the hell do you have a goddamn fertility statue next to the goddamn bed?”

Sam blanched. “Um. Reasons?”

Dean threw it. Sam ducked.

“Perhaps I’ll come back later,” Sam said, ducking his head as Dean tossed the Hell Spawn of Soothed Souls idol. A fat lot of good that one did.

Sam was going to torture the demon that made up the ceremonial consort idol package. He’d put it in an aquarium, hook it up to electrodes while a steady stream of electricity flowed through the water. Maybe with sharks. Or piranhas. Sharkpiranhas. He could have someone in development swing it.

But now was not the time to plan revenge. Now was the time to soothe his bride.

“Hey,” Sam spoke through the once again closed door. “How about something to eat? Cheeseburgers and beer? Pizza and whiskey. PIE! You like pie.”

The crashing, breaking and cursing stopped. Dean said in a cautious voice, “What kind of pie?”

Excited, Sam replied. “Any kind. All kinds. You name it and it’s yours. My chef makes the best homemade pie and ice cream in hell.”

Dean moved closer to the door and grunted a bit as he knocked something against it. “Bring the pie. And cheeseburgers. And some beer. And whiskey. And give me your credit card so I can rent some Casa Erotica while I eat.”

Sam hesitated. It might not be best for his reputation if it got out that the defilement of his consort was postponed because his bride was gorging on junk food and watching porn. He shrugged. It would be worth it if Dean stopped breaking his stuff.

“Coming right up! And don’t worry about having to use a credit card. Hell sort of invented cable porn so we get everything for free.” Sam said, projecting agreeability. 

“Calm down, Sammy. You’re not selling me a timeshare. Just bring the pie.”

Sam sent the order off with a thought to his chef. He also insisted it be delivered by a guard that knows their way around. With that settled, Sam went to check on Crowley.

“Why do you insist on pissing him off,” Sam shouted as he barged into Crowley’s sewing room. “Did you have to refer to the ceremonial garment as a wedding dress? We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t try to exorcise the wedding party.”

“I’m sorry, Sire,” Crowley wheezed. His chest still sporting an impressive grouping of bullet holes. “I did not know the lovely, beautiful and most excellent of shot consort would object to wearing the gown.”

“Garment,” Sam said. “We’re going with ceremonial garment. And why in hell did you put lace on it?”

Crowley ducked his head and grimaced. “I thought the green lace would enhance the beloved consort’s eyes.”

“Damn it, man! That’s why he’s freaking out. ‘Lovely’ ‘Beautiful’ ‘Pretty’. These are not words you use to describe a man that could dismember the hoards of purgatory with a smile on his face.” Sam huffed, his frustration finding a perfect avenue to vent. “He’s not delicate!”

Crowley’s face was awash in incredulity before he quickly schooled his features. Sam’s eyes narrowed to slits. 

“What?” he questioned.

“Sire, forgive me. There have been rumors about the consort’s reaction to the torture chambers.” Crowley kept his head bent, his shoes now the most interesting thing in hell.

Ok. So Crowley had him there. Dean handled being in hell with admirable equanimity until a stupid guard took a wrong turn and lead Dean straight into the rack room. It wasn’t pretty. Today was pedophile day and Sam’s best torturers liked to place bets on who could cause the most sustained pain with the fewest remaining nerves. It was kind of gross.

Still, Dean only threw up a couple of times and had managed to stop screaming by the time a replacement guard came to lead him the correct way. Sam was sure to schedule the offending guard an eternity or two on the rack. Getting Dean lost in hell made Sam look bad. What kind of King can’t properly escort his bride?

Dean had calmed down by the time he reached his bed chambers. He didn’t even complain about the furniture in the room, some of which was made of human skin. He just asked for a toothbrush, grabbed a fluffy towel and went to take a shower. Best part about hell? Endless supply of hot water.

It was when Dean came out dressed in a sexy black silk robe that things went downhill.

Frickin’ Crowley had taken one look at Dean and fell in love. Not gay love; he’d have died where he stood if it was gay love. Crowley too enthusiastically kowtowed and promised Dean he would make him the most beautiful wedding dress hell had ever seen.

That’s when the punching started. Followed quickly by an exorcism that sent Crowley to some random location. Judging by the smell of his clothes when he returned, Sam guessed it was somewhere near the trash dump.

“I want a list of everyone who’s been talking about Dean. I’ll make him a necklace of tongues as a wedding gift.” Sam scolded.

Crowley quickly closed his mouth and held up the 5th incarnation of the ceremonial garment.

“That looks like a giant pillow case with holes cut in it,” Sam exclaimed.

“It is what Dean said he’d be willing to wear. It’s not made of burlap like he requested but it’s a close approximation of sack.”

“Son of a bitch,” Sam exclaimed.

Would nothing go right today?


	2. Where'd the milk come from?

If it weren’t for the pie, Dean would be looking for the nearest exit.

As it was, he was beginning to think even epic pie couldn’t make the fuckfest that was now his life tolerable. How he went from a drunken, moderately morose suicidal hunter to the future consort of the King of Hell in the span of a few hours was beyond him.

Now he was in Hell, dragged here by his bitch of a returned-from-the-dead little brother, contemplating wedding gowns and table centerpieces. He was NOT going to let them use the ribcages of the recently condemned as flower vases. There were just some things on which a man couldn't compromise.

As Dean finished another slice of pie (he seemed to have a bottomless stomach now), he looked at the overabundance of food on the table and wondered where the chef got the fruit for the pies? And milk and ice for the ice cream? Unless the torturers were using the fruit, vegetables and meats in sickeningly creative ways, Dean didn’t imagine Hell had a need for sustainable agriculture. Dean thought of what he and his dumb guide had stumbled upon in the rack rooms and decided against eating the hamburger. There’s something about seeing men and women hung from the ceiling by their own intestines that spoiled his carnivorous appetite.

Was Sam’s almost near-vegetarian diet a portent of things to come? Did being a vegetarian make one primed to rule in Hell? Who would want to eat meat in a palace made up of meat suits? Dean blinked the thought away and looked around his room. He wasn’t impressed.

You see, Hell smelled weird. It’s hot and claustrophobic and the screaming was getting on his nerves. The least Sam could do was put out a scented candle and soundproof the rooms. And what the hell is up with the furniture? Does everything have to be psycho chic? Who makes lampshades out of human skin? It’s like someone threw up Hieronymus Bosch. Dean had never missed the comforting lime green and woodpecker wallpaper of the cheap motels he frequented more. There’s only so much black and red and guts and gore a guy could take.

Dean picked up another hideous statue and threw it at the door. He heard Sam whimper. Good.

The beer was the best he’d ever tasted, and although it didn’t go well with pie, he drank as many as he could. Maybe getting blind stinking drunk would make the upcoming ceremony feel less like showing up to school without clothes on. 

Dean’s usual Casa Erotica selections left him cold, and after looking around to make sure no one was watching, he turned to a gay porn channel. He put the TV on mute. Research, he told himself. Just research for his impending gay romp with his formerly dead, Boy King of Hell little brother.

Fuck. This was actually going to happen.

Dean didn’t mean to overreact about, as Sam called it, the “ceremonial garment”. Sam had explained to him, in vague, possibly misleading terms, what the ceremony and being the consort of the King entailed. It involved a dress, a stone altar, incestuous gay sex, and an audience. Dean had no idea what happened after. Was he to become the crowned prince’s housewife? Bake Sam flesh pot pies and knit sweaters out of human hair?

At the moment he was less concerned about what happened after than what he’d have to go through to get there.

Sam’s tailor, Crowley, the simpering sycophant, said he wanted to make Dean the best dressed consort to be defiled in the throne room since Lilith was expelled from heaven. Considering Lilith was Adam’s first wife, Dean thought it a bit tacky to be implying Sam might be looking for another consort at some point down the road. But, whatever. 

The simple truth was Dean didn’t really care about the dress, or the "ceremonial garment". How much time would he have once he agreed upon a design? Certain things needed prep. Like his ass.

What if he was no good at gay sex? From what Sam had described, Dean was pretty sure he’d be the bottom, mostly just laying there and taking a cock up his ass. Dean had seen Sam naked more than once. He’d seen the monster he was packing. What if he didn’t like it? Was he supposed to do what wives used to be told, just lay there and think of England?

And why on an altar in front of the denizens of hell? Was it some sort of test? Only the guy that was best at gay sex would be good enough for their King?

And why didn’t Sam give him a ring? Isn’t it customary for the bride to get a ring? Followed by a lengthy, gay sex researching engagement. This shit really bothered him.

He picked up his knife and starting cutting the crotch out of all of Sam’s pants. If he was going to have to face that gigantic cock, the rest of Hell should be forced to look at it too.

Dean heard a tentative knock on the door and picked up the nearest heavy object before saying, “Come in.”

Crowley slithered in, behind him a small horde of demons all carrying various white garments. Fuck. Why did it have to be white? Wasn’t gay sex messy? There certainly didn’t need to be more reasons for the demons to make fun of him. Least of all because of the weird sex goo that might come out of his ass.

Dean was starting to feel slightly stoned and concussed.

“What now, Crowley?” Dean huffed. “Didn’t you get the message that I don’t want to see you from all the times that I exorcised you and shot you in the chest?”

“Yes, beloved consort. You did a wonderful job of expelling me from your presence. And may I take a moment to compliment you on your excellent shooting skills.”

Dean banged his head on the wall. How did Sam not get sick of this? Did they follow Sam to the bathroom and compliment his excellent bowel movement? There was only so much supplication a guy could take.

“What the fuck do you want? Besides to lick my asshole clean.” Dean thought briefly that cleaning his asshole should be on the top of his to-do list.

“Um. I’ve come about the ceremonial garment. I believe I’ve found a nice selection of burlap bag type items for you to choose from.”

Dean winced. Maybe he should be careful about what he said around demons who would take his every word as the devil’s gospel. He put his hands over his ass in case Crowley got any ideas about licking.

“I don’t want a fucking burlap sack or,” Dean rummaged through a few garments, “a fucking pillow case with holes in it. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Crowley blanched, dropped the dress he was holding in a nearby demon’s arms and shooed them all out of the room. He got on his knees and began kissing Dean’s boots. “Forgive me most handsome and manly of consorts. Tell me to gouge out my eyes as recompense.”

“Jesus fucking Christ”, Dean exclaimed. “I just need a dress. A simple, no frills, no lace, no special color to highlight my eyes. A. Simple. White. Fucking. Dress.”

“The King said we were going with 'ceremonial garment'.” 

Dean kicked Crowley in the head.

“Get up. Go back to wherever your type goes and bring me back something I can wear!” Dean yelled.

Crowley vanished in a second.

Dean rested his head on his arms and ignored Sam’s overeager expression as he stood in the doorway.

God, Dean hated Hell.


	3. It's ok to drink the water

Sam was worried about the butt sex too.

He wasn’t an ass virgin like Dean. Jess had tried to finger him a time or two. She sought out his prostate with all the skill of a housewife searching for her ring in a garburator. Eventually he’d asked her to stop, gave her a polite kiss, and wondered how soon was too soon to ask her to wash her hands.

Dean was right. Ass juice was kind of gross.

Oh god. Sam was going to have to stick his fingers up Dean’s ass. This probably wasn’t something he could delegate. Shame that.

There might be something to Dean’s constant ass prep refrain.

Not that Sam could do anything with this information. It’s not like he could say, “Hey, so I read your mind and uh... Can I interest you in an enema?” Maybe Sam would see about having a colonic machine installed.

It might be tacky to read the mind of your future spouse but Sam was pretty sure the usual methods of resolving domestic disputes didn’t apply to someone who’d just cut the crotch out of all his pants. Sam wondered if Crowley would make him new ones or just put on brightly colored patches. You know, colors that would highlight his eyes.

He was big enough to admit he might have been hasty when he chose to have the ceremony the same day he retrieved Dean. There wasn’t exactly a guide book on how to be the king of rotten.

_How to reveal you’re no longer dead._ See page 46.  
_How to take your relationship with your brother to the next level, pt 2: butt sex on a altar._ See page 432.

Now he had an unhappy bride. A ringless unhappy bride. If he sprung one on Dean now, there's no way he'd think it a coincidence. That would lead to questions and revelations about the breadth of Sam's power, and the inevitable realization that if Sam had read Dean's mind about the ring, he'd heard everything else.

Stuff about gooey butt sex. Sam wasn’t ready for that awkward conversation. Maybe he’d tell Crowley to bring up enemas and let him deal with the fallout.

Sam would be better off breaking his own stuff than let Dean in on the mind reading.

Dean had lots of questions and Sam had lots answers but today was not the day for that. Today was the day for Sam to be doing manly things with his manly cock to his manly brother. Not sitting against the closed door to his bedroom, listening to his intended destroy his stuff.

Speaking of days to be doing things. He’s pretty sure it’s already the next day. Or week. He’s never gotten used to the way time moves in hell.

He banged his head against the door.

Dean abruptly opened it causing Sam to fall on his back and stare dumbly up into his brother’s angry green eyes.

“Why’s the tap water so fucking good,” Dean asked, looking down at him.

What the huh?

Ah, the questions. Well, only way over is through and all that. At least Dean started off with a soft ball.

“It’s from a small town in southern Chile - Puerto Williams. The purest water in the world,” Sam beamed. “The governor agreed to let us pipe it in direct if we hooked his people up with free internet.”

“Where’d the beer come from?”

“The Westvleteren Extra 8?,” Sam asked without needing to. “Westvleteren, Belgium. I wanted to get you Beer Geek Breakfast from Copenhagen since you were having pie and it’s a breakfast beer but my brewer, Gabriel, thought that beer brewed by a group of Trappist monks and only sold at their monastery would be funny as your first beer in hell. He’s selected a bunch of beers you might like to try later. Maybe Indiana’s, Zombie Dust next.”

“Who the fuck makes a breakfast beer?”

“Belgians monks,” Sam said, sagely. “Actually, the monks do this weird little thing with their feet and the...”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Dean interrupted. “I’ll book a flight, Rick Steves.”

Sam pouted.

“And why the fuck does hell have a brewery?”

Sam shrugged. “Demons get thirsty. Tough day at the racks, looking to wind down with a pint and some friends at the pub. I thought having a decent beer on tap would show them how much they're appreciated.”

Dean made a sound not dissimilar to a cat disemboweling itself.

Sam pulled himself up into a seated position and leaned against the door frame. It was too much to hope he'd be invited into his own bedroom.

“Are the hamburgers made from soylent green?” Dean continued.

Amused, Sam said, “All of hell’s edible meats come from a lovely Kosher butcher in the Bronx.”

Dean snuffed a laugh, returned to glaring. Dean was ignoring the “edible”.

“This is hell,” Sam shrugged again. “People sell their souls for the stuff we provide. Only politicians sell their souls for less than market value. We got a small town mayor in here a few years back who only wanted a few more percentage points in the polls. Didn't even ask to win. He ended up losing the election and killed himself.”

“Why is that funny to you? That's fucking horrible!”

Sam hadn't realized he was laughing. To him, all of hell was like a joke out of context.

“This is hell. You've got to take your laughs where you can get them.”

Dean pressed on. “Why are your hands so soft now? Even as a kid you had the hands of a rigger.”

Sam blushed. “I get regular mani-pedis. And there's a cream I apply at night.”

“That’s enough,” Dean said holding his hands up. “Your girly rituals are your own business.”

Sam didn’t seen anything wrong with having good grooming habits. He is a King, for fucksake. There were standards for this sort of thing.

“Why didn’t you choose to go to heaven?’

Sam did not want to talk about this. Heaven. Angels. _Castiel._ The name made him hiss, even in his head. Their “destiny”. Sam would rather get an appendectomy from Bob in accounting than talk about those bag of dicks.

“Can’t we talk about this later?” Sam pleaded.

“No, we can’t talk about this later,” Dean mocked, air quote fingers and all. “You chose to be evil. Evil didn’t sneak up on you and stuff you in an evil, ugly white suit. And what’s up with the suit? You look like a gigolo.”

Affronted, Sam puffed out his chest. “I happen to think I look fabulous in this. Everyone says so.”

“Those people would bottle your farts!”

Sam rolled his eyes. His followers were enthusiastic but they weren’t that bad. The clerical staff could be very standoffish.

“Not everyone is like that. You haven’t been here long enough to meet the factions that are actively plotting to have me staked in a bed of lava and gouge my eyes out with sporks.”

“So not the point! What if you aren’t you? You may have my Sam’s face but you don’t have his sense of humor. Come to think of it, my Sam didn’t have a sense of humor.”

Sam scoffed, “I am me! I’m as me as me can be.” He continued, agitated. “And how can you say I have no sense of humor? I glued your hand to the Tabasco bottle!”

Returning to the Heaven question, “Besides, you don’t know those ass monkeys like I do. Otherwise you’d be on that altar, ass up, ceremonial garment or no.”

On a roll now, “And God? I’ve met that nerdy dick. He abandoned humanity so he could write soft porn and be a lounge singer,” Sam said, his frustration gaining momentum. “He tried to set me on fire!”

“What if I want to meet him myself? Make up my own mind. Do you expect me to be bent over with your cock up my ass the entire time I’m here? Just another one of your mindless minions? I’m my own person, Sam. I won’t let being the wife of the King of hell define me.”

“I tell you God tried to set me on fire and you lecture me about your impending identity issues? If he’d scratched the Impala you’d insist I take my legion of demons and storm the pearly gates!”

Unmoved, Dean kept his hands on his hips, rolled eyes focused on the ceiling above Sam’s head. Waited.

“Fine, we’ll have him over for coffee after the ceremony.” Sam grumbled.

“Fine.” Dean said, satisfied. “Now go away. And send in Crowley! I have a ceremony to get ready for,” pushing Sam out and once again slamming the door in his face.

That went about as well as it could be expected. Dean didn’t ask about much, or pick up on the mind reading.

Now Sam had to decide if he should tell Dean they needed Bobby to act as witness or let him find out in person.

_Everyone likes surprises, right?_

Right.

Sam thought he heard Dean say, “Alright, let’s Barbara Streisand this bitch.”

Fuck. No one likes surprises.


	4. Say yes to the dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the dress terminology is real but I made up the combinations. Don't try these dresses at home, folks.

Dean’s 90% sure he’s being punked.

How else do you explain the 350lb offensive lineman standing in front of him wearing, as Crowley described it, _a faced satin backless Mermaid gown with tiara._ The dress, itself a monstrosity worthy of the best industrial shredder, paled in comparison to the 5 inch slingback heels the poor man was teetering on.

Martin, the model, had already fallen once. A spectacular faceplant mid catwalk stroll resulted in the poorly constructed platform collapsing on and crushing someone Dean was told would have been an usher. 

Of course the whole mess was Crowley’s idea. After Dean’s reversal on his willingness to wear a dress, Crowley went a bit insane, overdosing on organdy and tulle. Wary of upsetting Dean by making him try on dozens of dresses, Crowley got the brilliant idea of making extra of everything and having his demons show them off. 

“It’ll help you get an idea of how they flow,” Crowley assured.

When asked why Crowley didn’t find models that matched Dean’s body type, Crowley shrugged and said these were the only volunteers he could get that wouldn’t be missed from the steno pool.

Ginger, a woman who was no more than 4’8”, twirled around in a _Queen Anne A-line with cathedrale train._ The poor girl got so tangled up in the thing that Crowley cut it off of her instead of trying to find where’d she fallen in all the shantung. Dean thought she should have traded her kitten heels for Martin’s slingbacks.

“Crowley,” Dean said, as patiently as he could. “While these are lovely,” Crowley nearly wet himself at the praise, “ they are typically worn by women. I’m not sure I have the bust to fill out these bodices.”

“Yes, of course. How wise you are,” Crowley said, deflated. “I do have some other ideas. Perhaps in the highlander style; a rugged kilt with kilt hose, flashes, sporran. I could ask the armory to provide an authentic sgian-dubh. Or have you considered a toga? It’s along the lines of a large pillowcase but it would show off your shoulders and impressive biceps.”

Dean went to punch Crowley in the face with his impressive biceps but Sam came in just in time to catch his arm mid-swing.

“How about you give Dean a break for little while. Let him think a bit in private about all the lovely possibilities you’ve presented.” Sam said, a little too seriously for Dean’s liking.

“Would you like me to leave the models?” Crowley asked, ever the helpful minion. Then looking to Dean with his head tilted to the side, “You know, Sire, you could give the beloved consort breasts for the ceremony. He’s right about him not filling out the bodices.”

Dean struggled to get his arm out of Sam’s grip. He was going to fucking kill that smarmy toolbag!

“Uh, yeah. I’ll keep that in mind,” Sam said, before looking to Dean whose face said if Sam even thought about giving Dean breasts he’d castrate him.

Crowley backed out of the room in a half bow.

Sam let go of Dean's arm and Dean straightened out his clothes with an irritated huff.

“Did you see anything that interested you?” Sam, the eternally task oriented, asked.

Dean stilled then looked away. “The A line sheath wasn’t bad.”

“Good,” Sam said. “Great! Who was wearing that one?”

“Hubbert, the guy Crowley said typed 200 words per minute.”

“Ah, he did have excellent calves.” Sam said, before looking over at the remnants of the platform. “It’s a shame about Mr. Potter. His coworkers always went on about his excellent lemon squares.”

“Who’s Mr. Potter,” Dean asked.

“The man who was crushed to death when the platform collapsed.”

“Right,” Dean said, then paused, eyes unfocused and faraway, thoughtful. “Where do people go when they die in hell? I thought everyone was already dead.”

Sam looked around, seeking anything to focus on but Dean’s curious face. “Theygotothemeatgrinder.”

“What? They go where? I didn’t understand you.”

“They go to the meat grinder, alright!” Sam said, a bit too loudly.

Dean gasped, his shock turned to anger. “I thought you said you weren’t feeding me people!” Then in a mocking tone, “Lovely butcher, Mr. Ableson, has his own herb garden, a bunch of fat grandchildren.” Each of Dean’s air quotes becoming more dramatic than the last.

“Your meats come from there but...the demons, well. Let’s just say some of them like a bit of demon spice. You know how the older generation is about cannibalism.”

“No, no I don’t know that, Sam. Why would I know there are geriatric demon cannibals?”

“You’re right,” Sam apologised. “I can’t expect you to know everything about hell in your first few days. Just know I’m not feeding you human meat.” Sam gave Dean an exaggerated open palm pat on his shoulders.

Dean put his face in his hands and started to count backwards from 100.

“So,” Sam said, trying to coax Dean out of his meditation and back to the topic of the dress. “You like the A-line sheath. Did you have a fabric in mind?”

Dean, less calmer and more incredulous than ever yelled, “Why don’t we have it made out of human flesh? This is an ancient right of passage for a newly crowned king. Let’s go all out appeasing hell’s most psychotic!” 

“No,” Sam said, thoughtfully. “A flesh suit would be too difficult to remove. Cured human skin is similar to leather. There’s no real way to give it that graceful flow Crowley’s going for.”

Dean didn’t bother punching his brother. He just held up his arm and pointed to the door. “GET THE FUCK OUT.”

“But Dean,” Sam pleaded.

“Get out before I ask Crowley to use your skin for my wedding dress!”

“Oh, I don’t think the demon council would go for that.”

Dean put his hands on Sam’s back and pushed him forward, his feet barely gaining traction in the piles of lace littering the ground.

“I see you need some time to think,” Sam capitulated. “I’ll be just outside the door if you need me.”

Dean got Sam through the doorframe and slammed the door in his face. He thought he heard Sam yelp.

“How do you always get yourself into shit like this, Dean Winchester?” Dean asked the empty room.

He walked over and picked up one of the dresses. The sheath. It wouldn’t look that bad in dupioni fabric. And Dean’s calves were much nicer than Hubbert’s. He could totally rock those slingbacks.


	5. Tunnel of Love

Sam was hiding. 

No. He was regrouping. That’s it. Regrouping.

That he was doing his regrouping in hell’s pub, Dead Man’s Hat, drinking a Tunnel of Love watermelon ale was of little consequence. He was here to get his game plan in order and that’s that.

He just wanted to do it drunk. Surrounded by friends. Or, in Sam’s case, bootlicking suckups. 

“And then...and then Crowley suggested I give Dean breasts! Breasts, goddamnit! Not that Dean wouldn’t look lovely with a nice pair of A, B, Cs or Ds. Dean would look lovely with any physical augmentation or additional appendage. But it’s the point of the thing! Is Crowley trying to sabotage my ceremony?” Sam said, head in one hand, the other hand clasped around his beer; its sickly cotton candy scent a strange contrast to the scents of beer nuts and sulphur.

A chorus of yeses and nods followed, though a few confused half nos were interspersed here and there. Demons were pretty good at hedging their bets.

“You know, your lordship,” a thin man with a retro mustache said. “When I’m having trouble with the Mrs., I like to show her who wears the pants in the family, if you get my drift.” He punctuated this with a chicken winged arm nudge in Sam’s direction.

“What a bunch of horseshit, Marvin! All you have to do is lick her to gain her cooperation” shouted a redhaired man with a fetching beret. The silence that followed was uncomfortable.

“He’s an incubus. He’s got a venomous tongue,” the man elaborated, eyebrows bouncing suggestively.

Lots of ahs and ohs followed.

“I don’t use my venom on everyone, Hank,” Marvin said, affronted. “Some of us get our ladies the old fashioned way.”

“Abduction and rape?” asked a short portly man with thinning hair.

“For fucksake,” Sam yelled. “Stop helping, Steve!”

The bartender pulled out a water soaker filled with holy water and sprayed the offending demon. The demons around it shrieked and ducked for cover.

“I’ll not be havin’ anyone offend our lord and dark prince in my bar, ya hear?” She said, pointing the soaker at random so that all the demons hurriedly nodded in agreement. She reminded Sam of Bobby’s friend, Ellen. He liked her.

“Have you thought about wooing him?” the not-Ellen bartender asked.

“Woo him,” a demon with a 90s goatee asked. What’s up with demons and weird facial hair? “Our Lord gave up heaven for him! Killed Lucifer! Defied that dbag god. How would a box of chocolates and a bouquet of roses compete with that?”

Sam agreed though he still lifted his fingers and snapped. The demon exploded like an overcooked hot pocket. They’d learn not to speak ill of Dean.

“Tony,” not-Ellen yelled. “We’re going to need a mop.” Then, considering the pile of former demon, “And maybe a bucket.”

Sam plucked what looked like ear from his shoulder, dropped it on the floor, and waved his hand to clean his white suit.

“Maybe he's just not that into me,” Sam said forlornly. “I am his formerly dead brother. Maybe Dean is just going through the motions. Pretending he doesn't want to wear a dress when in reality he doesn't want to have sex on altar with me”

The chorus of denying encouragement that followed made Sam explode a few extra demons on principle. He needed someone who would tell him the truth. Unfortunately the only one who could kept slamming a door in his face. Not-Ellen gave him a fresh beer without prompting and Sam made a mental note to leave her a big tip. 

“I just wish I knew what was in his heart," Sam said, laying his head down on the sticky bar.

“Have you tried reading his mind,” asked overly helpful Steve. 

The fact that Sam had read Dean's mind and learned nothing beyond his earnest desire to present Sam with the cleanest asshole known to demon or man was not reassuring. Performance anxiety does not equate to undying love and devotion. If it weren't for Dean's reaction to his death, Sam would assume Dean didn't like him at all.

“I had a cousin once who cut off her betrothed’s ear just be before the wedding and they've been married for over 300 years.”

“What's your point, Harold?”

“Love makes us do crazy things. It doesn't mean we love each other less; some of us have a weird way of expressing it, that's all.”

Sam harrumphed and Harold moved down a few barstools. Sam would have been offended if it weren't for the fact that Tony was shoveling body parts into a wheelbarrow. I guess the bucket wasn't enough for Sam's tantrum. 

“You should try talking to him again. Not about the ceremony. Let him reconnect with the man he knew before you became King and he became your consort,” not-Ellen said.

She was right, of course. There was a little part of Sam that was afraid they wouldn't have the same bond they did before he died. Sam watched Dean grieving, saw how sad he was that Sam was gone. What if Dean was right? What if the Sam he missed was gone for good? He had to try. What's the worst that could happen?

“Thanks,” Sam said to not-Ellen. “What's your name by the way?”

“Ellen.”

Well. There couldn't be a better sign than that.


	6. The Talk

Dean heard knocking on his door from beneath the pillow he’d buried his head.

“Go away, Crowley. I told you what I want. I’m not trying on anything else…ever again.”

“Dean, it’s me.” Sam sounded different, subdued.

Dean got up, unlocked the door (how effective are the locks in hell?) and walked back to where he’d been laying face down on the bed. Sam could open his own damn door.

“Look, Sam. If it’s about the ceremony. I get that it’s a big deal but can it wait until tomorrow? I’ve got a headache from hell. Literally.”

“It’s not about that,” Sam said, sitting down next to Dean on the bed. His hand hovered over Dean’s resting form until he thought better of it and pulled it back.

Neither of them spoke for a while but eventually Sam broke the ice.

“You’re right. About me. About everything. Truth is, I don’t know if I’m me anymore. Not the me you need or want me to be. I’ve been here so long that I forget what’s normal to me must be horrifying to you.

“It’s not so bad.”

“Dean, you’ve been practically vegetarian since you got here. You’ve thrown up every time one of my idiot minions forgets to wash the entrails off before bringing you your dinner.”

“I challenge anyone to eat a hamburger when it’s served by a guy with guts on him!”

“That’s not the point, Dean.”

“Then what’s the point,” Dean asked, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“You’re not happy here and I’m not sure I know how to fix it,” Sam said, sorrow and resignation in his voice.

This made Dean look up. The first thing he noticed was Sam had changed out of his white suit and into jeans and a Henley.

“What happened to the zoot suit, Sammy?” 

“I guess I’m going to stop trying to impress you.”

Dean turned full around and was laying on his back. He tried to disguise his growing anxiety. “You thought dressing like a pimp would impress me,” he said without humor.

_Dean_ , Sam’s eyes said. 

Dean forced a laugh. “Seriously, I don’t get it. Why would you think you have to impress me. Don’t you have enough people sucking up to you?”

“I don’t want you to suck up to me or be afraid of me. I want you to like me like you used to.”

Realization hit Dean, “When you were alive.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh Sammy, of course I like you.” Dean reached over and grabbed Sam's soft hands.

Gesturing to himself and then back to Dean, “Like this? Together together?”

Ignoring the implications of the question, Dean pressed on, “I admit I'm a bit overwhelmed with all this. First you were dead and now you’re the king of hell? That kind of info takes some time to adjust to.”

“Plus I want to have incestuous gay sex with you on an altar.”

Dean snickered, “Plus that.”

Sam sighed and brushed his free hand through his long hair, messing up it's normally perfect coif.

“And what’s up with that exactly? You’re the big kahuna around here. Shouldn’t you be able to have sex with anyone you want wherever you want?”

“Sure, sex. But this is more than sex. This is letting the host of heaven and hell know you’re mine and I’m yours.”

Dean looked confused.

“Evil kings don’t exactly date, Dean. Doing this now will give you certain protections.”

“Protections from what? You can puree anyone by snapping your fingers. How does having public sex with me make you more able to protect me.”

“It makes you immortal.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“Don’t you think you should have told me having ritualistic sex would turn me into Dracula before we had ritualistic sex?”

“You won’t have to drink blood.”

“Not exactly the point, Sammy. Does it have to be done right away, or on an altar? Couldn't we have exhibitionist sex on a bed?”

Ignoring Dean's questions, Sam's somber mood worsened. “I saw you. When I first died. When you fought Bobby. When you punched Rufus. And then after. When you watched my body burn.”

Dean looked away. He never wanted to think about that time again. He tightened his grip on Sam's fingers. 

“You were so sad. Seeing you like that broke something in me. Maybe broke something open.” Sam returned Dean's tightened grip with a comforting squeeze.

“In this place, I've been so lonely, been here all alone longer than you can imagine. I was able to watch you, your sadness and desperation.”

“I hope you weren't watching me in the bathroom,” Dean said, ineffectively trying to lighten the mood.

“I watched you fling yourself into hunts, uncaring if you lived or died. It made me want to die all over again.”

“Sammy,” Dean started but Sam wouldn't take his proffered comfort.

“Let me get this out. Please.”

“Ok, Sammy.”

“You were in Lawrence visiting Mom's grave. You were in a desolate place, inconsolable and ignoring all of Bobby's calls and Ellen's offer of room and board. You went out to a bar that night and got drunk, ending hooking up with a woman who had my hair and eye color.”

Dean sucked in a breath. He remembered what he'd been thinking that night as he fucked her. _Sammysammysammy. I wish this were Sammy._

“I watched and…” stuttering and stalling for time, Sam ran his hand through his hair again. It was starting to look a little wild, matching the crazy he seemed to be feeling.

“And what, Sammy,” Dean whispered.

“I got jealous. White hot raging jealous. I accidentally set a house a few blocks over on fire.”

“I remember that fire,” Dean exclaimed.

“After, when I calmed down. I realized that I didn't want to get you back so we could be brothers again. I wanted us to be together together. It wasn't until I noticed all your hookups started to look like me that I thought you might feel the same.”

Dean smirked, “How do you know I just don't have a type?”

“I...uh…may have also read your mind.” Sam ducked his head, waiting for the fallout.

He didn't have to wait long, “I knew it! I knew you were reading my mind when Crowley brought me the engagement ring.”

“Engagement ring? I never asked Crowley to bring you a ring.” 

Dean thought Sam should have better control over his minions.

“Fucking interfering, trouble making, cock blocking Crowley. A guy learns he may have once been destined to be king and he becomes the Benedict Arnold of hell.” Sam exclaimed.

“What, so you didn't want to get me a ring?” Dean sadly asked.

“Of course I did. Do. But since you're not wearing it I can only assume whatever Crowley gave you is ghastly.”

“Oh, yeah. It was awful. Liberace would have chucked it in the toilet.”

“I should fire that man.”

“He gets paid?”

“No, I meant I should set him on fire.”

“Ah,” Dean said, offense for the ugly ring replaced with understanding and mischief. “Let me be there for that.”

Sam hiccuped a laugh. “I’ll make it a feature of our honeymoon.” 

“Anyway,” Sam said, continuing his story. “I saw you with these women. Knew that maybe you wanted them to be me, so I sped up my campaign to kill Lucifer and started making plans to retrieve you.”

“You know those women meant nothing to me, right?” Trying to comfort Sam, “I even robbed a few of them.”

Sam huffed a laugh. “I may have given them curable VD right after they slept with you. I wouldn't recommend calling them."

Dean full out laughed at that and pulled Sam in for a hug. “I love you.”

The bold statement shocked both of them and had them reaching for each other in a passionate kiss.

“I missed you so much, Sammy.” Dean said as he kissed Sam's lips, cheeks, neck. “I thought about this all the time. What we missed out on. What we could have had.”

Sam kissed back, then pulled away and placed Dean's face in his hands. “l know you’re not happy here.”

“The ritual doesn't matter if I get to have you,” Dean said, pushing his face forward to kiss Sam again. Sam stopped him. 

"I know part of why you hesitate is because you don’t know what happens afterward. What it will mean for you, us. You fear you'll be stuck in hell with only Crowley for company.”

“That mind reading thing is going to get real old really fast.” Dean sighed and pulled back, leaning against the headboard. “You know I’m going to do it. I’ve already picked out a dress.”

Sammy sighed and grabbed Dean’s hand again and laced their fingers together.

“A dress you don’t want to wear.”

“When have I ever worn a dress? It takes some getting used to.”

“Like me being the king of hell.”

“Well, not exactly but at least you’re trying to understand.”

Sam put his head down to stare at their joined hands. Dean shook them a little so Sam would look up. “Where are you going with all this? You're not getting cold feet, are you. Because I'd get you killed again on principle for making me go through all those trial dresses.”

“You did not get me killed,” Sam barked.

“Yeah, yeah. Back to the point of the chick flick moment.”

Sam looked down again and softly spoke. “I want you. I've killed to have you. But I also need you to know that I'll do anything to keep you.”

“Sam,” Dean said, understanding laced with compassion in his voice. “You don't have to do anything to get me to stay with you. Even if it means putting up with Crowley for an eternity, I am never leaving. And you know how much I hate that dick.”

Sam gave a small laugh, “I know that's true. I hope that's true.”

“Of course it's true,” Dean said as he waved their joined hands, pointing to Sam, then back to himself. “This. Us. It's forever.”

They kissed again, slower, exploratory. Sam pulled away again and Dean chased his lips. “For a guy who says he's desperate to have ritualistic gay sex with me, you're playing awfully hard to get.”

Sam laughed, pecked Dean's lips and stood up. “I came here because I wanted to show you something. Nothing gross or hell related, promise.”

“You had me at nothing gross.” Dean laughed and stood next to Sam. Sam moved to put his fingers on Dean's forehead but Dean stilled them.

“Hey, I've got a question.” 

“Shoot,” Sam said, relaxed and happy door the first time in days.

“Do I take your last name or do you take mine?”


	7. Nobody puts Baby in the corner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your kudos and comments. They are very much appreciated.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the new chapter!

Like most things that happened since Sam retrieved Dean, Sam's big reveal wasn't going as planned. He expected joyful tears, a bruising hug, maybe grateful blowjob. Not that they’d gotten that far but a King can dream.

This wasn’t even in the realm of what he imagined.

Dean stood next to him in the pouring rain and waited, occasionally sneaking a confused peek at Sam. 

Completely drenched, Sam stood next to him and waited too, occasionally sneaking a hopeful peek at Dean.

Sometimes they’d turn at the same time, start to speak, then turn back to staring at the house.

Finally, apparently done with the stalemate, Dean said, “It's a house.”

Sam sighed. “I see you've been practicing your shapes.”

Dean rolled his eyes and gestured toward the house with his chin. “You said you had something to show me. Why a house?”

“It’s not that existential, Dean. It’s where people shaped people live.” 

Dean upped the intensity of his glare.

“It's a mansion,” Sam clarified, then said proudly, “with a detached 3 car garage.”

“I meant, why are we standing here at four in the morning looking at a mansion in the fucking rain?”

“Oh. I see your point.” Sam nodded, turning to place two fingers on Dean's forehead, zapping them inside, and drying them off with a snap.

Dean looked around the spacious, tastefully decorated room. “Thanks but that didn't clear things up, Sam.”

Sam sighed, then pointed his eyebrows and forehead in various directions. That would help.

Dean blinked. Looked around the room. Maybe got it. “Are we moving out of hell?

“Not exactly…” Sam started, only to be interrupted by Dean.

“Is that like breaking some demonic lease? Ruin your credit for eternity?” Dean laughed at his own joke.

Sam dropped his chin to his chest. Sighed. Sometimes Dean was just so _Dean._

“Whatever, bitch,” Dean shrugged, looking around the large living room they were in. It featured a huge flatscreen TV on one wall and a wraparound leather sofa on the other. Gaming consoles from every manufacturer were in an opened cabinet, a full bar next to it with bright lights above it, and there...he noticed. Busty Asian Beauties Lingerie Edition.

Dean dove for the magazine and flopped down on a couch. Flipping through the magazine Dean asked, “Where is it?”

“Dean, we’re standing inside of it,” Sam stated, perplexed.

“Where is its geographical location, bitch,” Dean exclaimed. “We didn’t drive here, remember.”

“Well, that’s kind of hard to explain. Right now, technically, it only exists here. It’s sort of in what you might call void space.” Sam replied.

“Doctor Who? You’re Doctor Whoing me right now? God, even as the Antichrist you’re a fucking nerd.”

“Says the nerd who understood it.”

“Sam, not that I don’t like the magazine, but why are we here? And if this is a void space of your making, why did you make it rain on us?” Dean asked.

Dean had a pretty good point about the rain.

Although they'd been over this, it still beared repeating. “You don’t like hell. And the rain gave it an air of authenticity. I probably should have gone with a sunny day,” 

“‘I probably should have gone with a sunny day’”, Dean parroted in a falsetto. Then, “Newsflash, Sammy. Nobody likes hell! There are no Valentine’s Day cards that say, ‘Being with you makes me feel like I’m in hell’.”

“I heard you, Dean. Remember I can read your mind?” Sam huffed. “Hell sucks. Too much torture. Too much tulle. Hell smells.”

“Yeah, all that too. But why am I in the void space reading porn at four in the morning?”

Sam nudged Dean forward with suggestive eyebrows. Dean mostly blinked.

“This house,” Sam repeated, “is for you.” Sam beamed with pride. That'll do it.

Dean looked around, confused. “Ok. Why are you giving me a house?”

Sam made an anguished sound and flopped down in one of the oversized, comfy looking chairs. “I knew this was a bad idea. Fucking Ellen.”

“Who the fuck is Ellen,” Dean asked with just a touch of jealousy..

“Ellen is my bartender. She suggested you might like someplace to live that doesn’t feel like hell.”

“You’ve been talking about us to your bartender? Are you kicking me out?” 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sam yelled, zapping himself out of the room. Why did Dean have to take everything the wrong way? Sam let out a frustrated sigh and most of the light bulbs in the house exploded.

Sam heard Dean shout, “Geez, I was just asking. Don't be such a drama queen.”

Drama queen? Wasn't Dean the one who cut the crotch out of all his pants? 

Sam took some time to compose himself, returned inside, and with a flick of his wrist fixed the light bulbs and cleaned up the glass.

Dean continued as if nothing happened. “Is that blasphemy if you're the Antichrist? Or are you a walking blasphemy?”

“Dean,” Sam said, running his hands through his hair and tugging at the ends, trying to calm himself. “The house is for us. To live in. Together. Like, together together.” Again, with the bouncing eyebrows.

Sam’s attempt at eyebrow communication wasn’t as effective as he’d hoped. Or Dean was being deliberately obtuse.

Dean asked, “If this is for us to live in, why is it located nowhere?”

“I’m waiting for you to decide where you want me to put it.”

“Yeah, I’m not touching that one.” Dean looked around the room, then made a thoughtful expression. “Does this mean you’re quitting?”

“Quitting what?”

“Being,” Dean gestured in Sam’s general vicinity, “you know. Evil.”

“I’m not evil,” Sam protested.

“Dude, you thought it was hilarious when Chet made that homophobic preacher eat his own…”

Sam interrupted, “That wasn’t evil. That was justice.” Then with a smile, “Also kind of funny.”

“Why is it so big?”

Sam began to suspect Dean was deliberately having two conversations at once. Maybe this would be a good time to bring up ass stuff. He'd play along.

“I thought it might be nice to have some space for when we have kids.”

“Kids? How are we supposed to have kids? Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that fertility idol, Samuel.”

Sam had the decency to look sheepish.

“Sam,” Dean warned.

“Adopt! I meant adopt! They’ll be no ass babies for us,” Sam made another mental note: check with research to see if fertility idol spells could be reversed.

Dean’s eyes turned to slits and he made pointed circle in the air in the direction of Sam’s chest. “And don’t you forget it.”

Returning to the previous question, “I’m not quitting being King of Hell. I’m just going to be commuting to work.”

“To hell.”

“Yes, Dean. To hell.”

“I wonder if your commute to hell will be a commute from…”

Sam interrupted him, “Stop. Just stop.” Returning to one of the comfy chairs, Sam put his head in his hands.

Dean stood up and went to lean against the arm of Sam’s recliner.

“I’m sorry, Sammy. You know I’m not good at this emotional stuff. You being alive, getting married, now a house… It’s all very touchy feely.”

“I know. But we've never had this. A house. Furniture. Carpet we can walk on barefoot. Beds without suspicious stains.”

Dean nodded, encouraging Sam to continue.

“I want to be able to give you this. I want to give you everything.”

“Sammy,” Dean whispered. “You’re alive. There’s nothing else I need.” Dean leaned over and captured Sam’s lips in a sweet, soft kiss.

Sam grabbed Dean’s arm and pulled Dean onto his lap. Dean squawked and flailed but Sam ignored him as he got them settled.

“You’re a lot stronger than you used to be,” Dean grumbled.

“Comes with the crown,” Sam beamed, snuggling Dean closer and kissing his cheeks.

Dean huffed and pretended he wasn’t into it but tilted his head back to give Sam better access.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean asked.

“Hmmm,” Sam replied, nibbling a little.

“Why were you going on about a 3 car garage?”

“Oh!,” Sam said, jumping up and accidentally dumping Dean on the floor. “I almost forget!” Sam snapped his fingers and suddenly they were both standing in a large garage.

Dean didn’t see anything in it but Baby.

“Baby! I almost forgot,” Dean squealed. Sam was fairly certain he’d be punched in the face if he laughed at the sound.

Dean walked over to the car and ran his hand over her sleek form. “I can’t believe I just left her.”

“I made sure she was safe,” Sam said, proud of himself for having remembered how important the car was.

Dean nodded his appreciation. He went to open the door but suddenly stopped, turning to look at Sam with an expression of abject horror. “YOU KEPT BABY IN THE VOID SPACE!”


End file.
